6 January 2013
Inspiration. A graceful, impetuous word. Grants and feeds us lyrics for constructions of art, expressions of the human soul. But as to where it comes from? Everywhere-everything. Every burning passion and desire, every powerful yearning of freedom, and every image. An image that holds feelings, emotions trapped in a locked vault hidden deep inside whispering shadows. But what about mine? Mine...I don't know. I mean, of course I know. But to put that into words... I guess my inspiration rages in many aspects or varying categories. My inspiration, the fuel for my train of thought, resides in my heart. It summons from daily pain and joy and hope. My inspiration comes from the obstacles I've had to overcome over the past years and the losses I've suffered. Last year, in the month of March, there was a field trip. It was for the band. It lasted for a couple of days, and everyone departures during the middle of the school day. Actually, to be honest, I wasn't sure when they left, how long hey stayed away, nothing. All I know is that on Friday, when I came home from babysitting at around 10 or 10:30 pm, my mom faced me with a dark expression on her face. Melancholy was set deep in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but as any teenager I sorta listened and sorta didn't. "...school...?" "Huh?" I said. "Did you say something about school?" " Honey, do you know a Pieper Niolon?" "Yeah," I said nonchalantly. "She's...she's dead." I laughed. Well, chuckled really. I mean, c'mon. This is Pieper! Her mom was in the PTO and she was a great person. I mean. She wasn't popular, if that's what you're thinking. She was just....she just didn't deserve it. "You're funny," I chuckled lightly. "This a joke, right...?" I looked towards my dad, who was leaning against the doorway leading to the kitchen with his arms crossed and looking towards his feet. It hit me, like someone has punched me in the gut with brass knuckles made of steel. I shook and sobbed out hysterically. Mom wrapped her arms around, leaking tears of her own. I thought she had went on that field trip! But no. She was rotting inside her house with her mom, no one ever knowing... "How...how?" Was all I could manage to squeak out. "Shot," was what came from her mouth. "She never knew. Better like that." I nodded once, still trembling uncontrollably and still weeping tears that seemed to never dry. I went into my room screaming into my pillow and flailing my limbs. Who ever did this to her... They are gonna get whatever the fuck they deserve!!
Like A Flower, You Weren't Finished Blooming is dedicated to her. She is my inspiration, and the same reason I choose to live freely and to the fullest. No more am I that miserable little girl I once was. I have decided to blossom and let myself have friends. Thank y'all for reading. It means a lot to me and writing is most certainly one of my passions that will never die or fade away. Insert smiley face here!
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